"Miriam," I said hastily, before he could suggest any of his terrifying female relatives. "Phoebe, of course. Marthe. Sophie. Amira. I'd like to ask Vivian Harrison, too."
"See. Once you get started, they mount up quickly," Matthew said with a smile.
That left us with six godparents per child. We were going to be drowning in silver baby cups and teddy bears, if the piles of tiny clothes, booties, and blankets Ysabeau and Sarah had already purchased were any indication.
Two of the twins' potential godparents joined us for dinner most evenings. Marcus and Phoebe were so obviously in love that it was impossible not to feel romantic in their presence. The air between them thrummed with tension. Phoebe, for her part, was as unflappable and self-possessed as ever. She didn't hesitate to lecture Matthew on the state of the frescoes in the ballroom and how shocked Angelica Kauffmann would be to find her work neglected in such a fashion. Nor did Phoebe plan on allowing the de Clermont family treasures to be kept from the eyes of the public indefinitely.
"There are ways to share them anonymously, and for a fixed period of time," she told Matthew.
"Expect to see the picture of Margaret More from the Old Lodge's upstairs loo on display at the National Portrait Gallery very soon." I squeezed Matthew's hand encouragingly.
"Why didn't someone warn me it would be so difficult to have historians in the family?" he asked Marcus, looking a trifle dazed. "And how did we end up with two?"
"Good taste," Marcus said, giving Phoebe a smoldering glance.
"Indeed." Matthew's mouth twitched at the obvious double entendre.
When it was just the four of us like this, Matthew and Marcus would talk for hours about the new scion--though Marcus preferred to call it "Matthew's clan" for reasons that had as much to do with his Scottish grandfather as with his dislike of applying botanical and zoological terms to vampire families.
"Members of the Bishop-Clairmont scion--or clan if you insist--will have to be especially careful when they mate or marry," Matthew said one evening over dinner. "The eyes of every vampire will be on us."
Marcus did a double take. "Bishop-Clairmont?"
"Of course," Matthew said with a frown. "What did you expect us to be called? Diana doesn't use my name, and our children will bear both. It's only right that a family composed of witches and vampires has a name that reflects that."
I was touched by his thoughtfulness. Matthew could be such a patriarchal, overprotective creature, but he had not forgotten my family's traditions.
"Why, Matthew de Clermont," Marcus said with a slow smile. "That's downright progressive for an old fossil like you."
"Hmph." Matthew sipped at his wine.
Marcus's phone buzzed, and he looked at his display. "Hamish is here. I'll go down and let him in."
Muted conversation floated up the stairs. Matthew rose. "Stay with Diana, Phoebe."
Phoebe and I exchanged worried looks.
"It will be so much more convenient when I'm a vampire, too," she said, trying in vain to hear what was being said downstairs. "At least then we'll know what's going on."
"Then they'll just take a walk," I said. "I need to devise a spell--one that will magnify the sound waves. Something using air and a bit of water, perhaps."
"Shh." Phoebe tilted her head and made an impatient sound. "Now they've lowered their voices. How maddening."
When Matthew and Marcus reappeared with Hamish in tow, their faces told me that something was seriously wrong.
"There's been another message from Benjamin." Matthew crouched before me, his eyes level with mine. "I don't want to keep this from you, Diana, but you must stay calm."
"Just tell me," I said, my heart in my throat.
"The witch that Benjamin captured is dead. Her child died with her." Matthew's eyes searched mine, which filled with tears. And not only for the young witch but for myself, and my own failure. If I hadn't hesitated, Benjamin's witch might still be alive.
"Why can't we have the time we need to sort things out and deal with this huge mess we seem to have made? And why do people have to keep dying while we do it?" I cried.
"There was no way to prevent this," Matthew said, stroking my hair away from my forehead. "Not this time."
"What about next time?" I demanded.
The men were grim and silent.
"Oh. Of course." I drew in a sharp lungful of air, and my fingers tingled. Corra burst out from my ribs with an agitated squawk and launched herself upward to perch on the chandelier. "You'll stop him. Because next time he's coming for me."
I felt a pop, a trickle of liquid.
Matthew looked down to my rounded belly in shock.
The babies were on their way.
Don't you dare tell me not to push." I was red-faced and sweating, and all I wanted was to get these babies out of me as quickly as possible.
"Do. Not. Push," Marthe repeated. She and Sarah had me walking around in an effort to ease the aching in my back and legs. The contractions were still around five minutes apart, but the pain was becoming excruciating, radiating from my spine around to my belly.
"I want to lie down." After weeks of resisting bed rest, now I just wanted to crawl back into the bed, with its rubber-covered mattress and sterilized sheets. The irony was not lost on me, nor on anyone else in the room.
"You're not lying down," Sarah said.
"Oh, God. Here comes another one." I stopped in my tracks and gripped their hands. The contraction lasted a long time. I had just straightened up and started breathing normally when another one hit. "I want Matthew!"
"I'm right here," Matthew said, taking Marthe's place. He nodded to Sarah. "That was fast."
"The book said the contractions are supposed to get gradually closer together." I sounded like a peevish schoolmarm.
"Babies don't read books, honey," Sarah said. "They have their own ideas about these things."
"And when they're of a mind to be born, babies make no bones about it," Dr. Sharp said, entering the room with a smile. Dr. Garrett had been called away to another delivery at the last minute, so Dr. Sharp had taken charge of my medical team. She pressed the stethoscope against my belly, moved it, and pressed again. "You're doing marvelously, Diana. So are the twins. No sign of distress. I'd recommend we try to deliver vaginally."
"I want to lie down," I said through gritted teeth as another band of steel shot out from my spine and threatened to cut me in two. "Where's Marcus?"
"He's just across the hall," Matthew said. I dimly remembered ejecting Marcus from the room when the contractions intensified.
"If I need a cesarean, can Marcus be here in time?" I demanded.
"You called?" Marcus said, entering the room in scrubs. His genial grin and unruffled demeanor calmed me instantly. Now that he'd returned, I couldn't remember why I'd kicked him out of the room.
"Who moved the damn bed?" I puffed my way through another contraction. The bed seemed to be in the same place, but this was clearly an illusion for it was taking forever for me to reach it.
"Matthew did," Sarah said breezily.
"I did no such thing," Matthew protested.
"In labor we blame absolutely everything on the husband. It keeps the mother from developing homicidal fantasies and reminds the men they aren't the center of attention," Sarah explained.
I laughed, thereby missing the rising wave of pain that accompanied the next fierce contraction.
"Fu--Sh--Godda--" I pressed my lips firmly together.
"You are not getting through tonight's main event without swearing, Diana," Marcus said.
"I don't want a string of profanity to be the first words the babies hear." Now I recalled the reason for Marcus's expulsion: He'd suggested I was being too prim in the midst of my agony.
"Matthew can sing--and he's loud. I'm sure he could drown you out."
"God--blasted--it hurts," I said, doubling over. "Move the fucking bed if you want to be helpful, but stop arguing with me, you asshole!"
My
reply was met with shocked silence.
"Atta girl," Marcus said. "I knew you had it in you. Let's have a look."
Matthew helped me onto the bed, which had been stripped of its priceless silk coverlet and most of its curtains. The two cradles stood in front of the fire, waiting for the twins. I stared at them while Marcus conducted his examination.
Thus far this had been the most physically intrusive four hours of my life. I'd had more things jabbed into me and more stuff taken out of me than I thought possible. It was oddly dehumanizing, considering that I was responsible for bringing new life into the world.
"Still a little while to go," Marcus said, "but things are speeding up nicely."
"Easy for you to say." I would have hit him, but he was positioned between my thighs and the babies were in the way.
"This is your last chance for an epidural," Marcus said. "If you say no, and we have to do a C-section, we'll have to knock you out completely."
"There's no need for you to be heroic, ma lionne," Matthew said.
"I'm not being heroic," I told him for the fourth or fifth time. "We have no idea what an epidural might do to the babies." I stopped, my face scrunched in an attempt to block the pain.
"You have to keep breathing, honey," Sarah pushed her way to my side. "You heard her, Matthew. She isn't taking the epidural, and there's no point in arguing with her about it. Now, about the pain. Laughter helps, Diana. So does focusing on something else."
"Pleasure helps, too," Marthe said, adjusting my feet on the mattress in such a way that my back immediately relaxed.
"Pleasure?" I said, confused. Marthe nodded. I looked at her in horror. "You can't mean that."
"She does," Sarah said. "It can make a huge difference."
"No. How can you even suggest such a thing?" I couldn't think of a less erotically charged moment. Walking now seemed like a very good idea, and I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. That was as far as I got before another contraction seized me. When it was over, Matthew and I were alone.
"Don't even think about it," I said when he put his arms around me.
"I understand 'no' in two dozen languages." His steadiness was annoying.
"Don't you want to yell at me or something?" I asked.
Matthew took a moment to consider. "Yes."
"Oh." I'd expected a song and dance about the sanctity of pregnant women and how he would put up with anything for me. I giggled.
"Lie on your left side and I'll rub your back." Matthew pulled me down next to him.
"That's the only thing you're going to rub," I warned.
"So I understand," he said with more aggravating control. "Lie down. Now."
"That sounds more like you. I was beginning to think they'd given you the epidural by mistake." I turned and fitted my body into his.
"Witch," he said, nipping me on the shoulder.
It was a good thing I was lying down when the next contraction hit.
"We don't want you to push, because there's no telling how long this will take and the babies aren't ready to be born yet. It's been four hours and eighteen minutes since the contractions started. There could be another day of this ahead of you. You need to rest. That's one reason I wanted you to have the nerve blocker." Matthew used his thumbs to massage the small of my back.
"It's only been four hours and eighteen minutes?" My voice was faint.
"Nineteen minutes now, but yes." Matthew held me while my body was racked with another fierce contraction. When I was able to think straight, I groaned softly and pressed back into Matthew's hand.
"Your thumb is in an absolutely divine spot." I sighed with relief.
"And this spot?" Matthew's thumb traveled lower and closer to my spine.
"Heaven," I said, able to breathe through the next contraction a bit better.
"Your blood pressure is still normal, and the back rub seems to be helping. Let's do it properly." Matthew called for Marcus to bring in the oddly shaped, leather-padded chair with the reading stand from his library and had him set it up by the window, a pillow resting on the support that was designed to hold a book. Matthew helped me sit astride it, facing the pillow.
My belly swelled out and made contact with the back of the chair.
"What on earth is this chair really for?"
"Watching cockfights and playing all-night card games," Matthew said. "You'll find it's much easier on your lower back if you can lean forward a bit and rest your head on the pillow."
It was. Matthew began a thorough massage that started at my hips and moved up until he was loosening the muscles at the base of my skull. I had three more contractions while he was working, and though they were prolonged, Matthew's cool hands and strong fingers seemed to soften some of the pain.
"How many pregnant women have you helped this way?" I asked, mildly curious about where he had acquired this skill. Matthew's hands stilled.
"Only you." His soothing motions continued.
I turned my head and found him looking at me, though his fingers never stopped moving.
"Ysabeau said I'm the only one to sleep in this bedroom."
"Nobody I met seemed worthy of it. But I could envision you in this room--with me, of course--shortly after we met."
"Why do you love me so much, Matthew?" I couldn't see the attraction, especially not when I was rotund, facedown, and gasping with pain. His response was swift.
"To every question I have ever had, or ever will have, you are the answer." He pulled my hair away from my neck and kissed me on the soft flesh beneath the ear. "Do you feel like getting up for a bit?"
A sudden, sharper pain that coursed through my lower extremities kept me from responding. I gasped instead.
"That sounds like ten centimeters' dilation to me," Matthew murmured. "Marcus?"
"Good news, Diana," Marcus said cheerfully as he walked into the room. "You get to push now!"
Push I did. For what seemed like days.
I tried it the modern way first: lying down, with Matthew clasping my hand, a look of adoration on his face.
That didn't work well.
"It's not necessarily a sign of trouble," Dr. Sharp told us, looking at Matthew and me from her vantage point between my thighs. "Twins can take longer to get moving during this stage of labor. Right, Marthe?"
"She needs a stool," Marthe said with a frown.
"I brought mine," Dr. Sharp said. "It's in the hall." She jerked her head in that direction.
And so the babies that were conceived in the sixteenth century opted to eschew modern medical convention and be born the old-fashioned way: on a simple wooden chair with a horseshoe-shaped seat.
Instead of having a half dozen strangers share the birth experience, I was surrounded by the ones I loved: Matthew behind me, holding me up physically and emotionally; Jane and Marthe at my feet, congratulating me on having babies so considerate as to present themselves to the world headfirst; Marcus offering a gentle suggestion every now and then; Sarah at my side, telling me when to breathe and when to push; Ysabeau standing by the door, relaying messages to Phoebe, who waited in the hall and sent a constant stream of texts to Pickering Place, where Fernando, Jack, and Andrew were waiting for news.
It was excruciating.
It took forever.
When at 11:55 P.M. the first indignant cry was heard at long last, I started to weep and laugh. A fierce protective feeling took root where my child had been only moments before, filling me with purpose.
"Is it okay?" I asked, looking down.
"She is perfect," Marthe said, beaming at me proudly.
"She?" Matthew sounded dazed.
"It is a girl. Phoebe, tell them Madame has given birth to a girl," Ysabeau said with excitement.
Jane held the tiny creature up. She was blue and wrinkled and smeared with gruesome-looking substances that I'd read about but was inadequately prepared to see on my own child. Her hair was jet-black, and there was plenty of it.
"Why is she blue? What's wrong wi
th her? Is she dying?" I felt my anxiety climb.
"She'll turn as red as a beet in no time," Marcus said, looking down at his new sister. He held out a pair of scissors and a clamp to Matthew. "And there's certainly nothing wrong with her lungs. I think you should do the honors."
Matthew stood, motionless.
"If you faint, Matthew Clairmont, I will never let you forget it," Sarah said testily. "Get your ass over there and cut the cord."
"You do it, Sarah." Matthew's hands trembled on my shoulders.
"No. I want Matthew to do it," I said. If he didn't, he was going to regret it later.
My words got Matthew moving, and he was soon on his knees next to Dr. Sharp. In spite of his initial reluctance, once he was presented with a baby and the proper medical equipment, his movements were practiced and sure. After the cord was clamped and cut, Dr. Sharp quickly swaddled our daughter in a waiting blanket. Then she presented this bundle to Matthew.
He stood, dumbstruck, cradling the tiny body in his large hands. There was something miraculous in the juxtaposition of a father's strength with his daughter's vulnerability. She stopped crying for a moment, yawned, and resumed yelling at the cold indignity of her current situation.
"Hello, little stranger," Matthew whispered. He looked at me in awe. "She's beautiful."
"Lord, just listen to her," Marcus said. "A solid eight on the Apgar test, don't you think, Jane?"
"I agree. Why don't you weigh and measure her while we clean up a bit and get ready for the next one?"
Suddenly aware that my job was only half done, Matthew handed the baby into Marcus's care. He then gave me a long look, a deep kiss, and a nod.
"Ready, ma lionne?"
"As I'll ever be," I said, seized by another sharp pain.
Twenty minutes later, at 12:15 A.M., our son was born. He was larger than his sister, in both length and weight, but blessed with a similarly robust lung capacity. This, I was told, was a very good thing, though I did wonder if we would still feel that way in twelve hours. Unlike our firstborn, our son had reddish blond hair.
Matthew asked Sarah to cut the cord, since he was wholly absorbed in murmuring a stream of pleasant nonsense into my ear about how beautiful I was and how strong I'd been, all the while holding me upright.
It was after the second baby was born that I started to shake from head to foot.
"What's. Wrong?" I asked through chattering teeth.